The Spirit Dies
by isolde13
Summary: Jayne. Reavers. It's not pretty.
1. Chapter 1

Author's notes: Folks, this is JayneTorture, plain and simple. Yes, I know I'm a sick puppy so there is no point in telling me. It's a little on the heavy side, so if you're a sensitive soul - best stay away. There is no comfort in this piece - it's all hurt - but I do have a rescue and much loving in mind later for Jayne, and if anyone's interested, I will definitely write it for you.

Also, I think I wrote Jayne as being much more lyrical and well-spoken than he actually is. Sorry. This is my first foray into this world. I'll try better next time.

Death of the Spirit

Jayne was not a man that was prone to fear. He had felt it sure; anyone that was sane had felt it at one time or another. But it just didn't happen all that often. In fact he could count the times that it had on his fingers - a fact that he was secretly very proud of.

But right now, he was surrounded by fear; suffocated by it, choking on it, and yet he felt weirdly disconnected from it, like he wasn't an actual participant in what was inducing the fear. He felt almost as if he were a stranger looking in, looking through some secret porthole, watching as someone _else_ was dragged off by Reavers.

And yet this disconnect did not cause him to remain docile in the midst of the attack. He kicked and lashed out and bucked and howled against it . . . against _them_ . . . for all he was worth. And despite all this, it was quickly becoming apparent to him that all the strength and all the energy that he was expending was for nothing. There were at least ten of them and there was one of him. They were insane and fought like madmen while he was...mostly sane and existing on an adrenaline high. And so despite his best efforts, they steadily dragged him from the small, empty store that he had been perusing through, out through a back alley, and into another bigger building.

As soon as he hit the floor of this new place, he looked around wildly, trying to get his bearings. It was a saloon, once maybe bustling with people and songs and drink. Now, it was nothing but a charnel house - the mutilated bodies of Reaver victims littered throughout.

'It isn't fair,' he thought inanely as one of his attackers picked him up by his hair and proceeded to throw him face down over a table so that his legs dangled from it. But it really _wasn't _fair. They weren't supposed to be here. Everything had indicated that the Reavers had already left; none of their ships were in the area. So what the hell?

No, this just wasn't fair. At. All.

He continued to think it as his hands were brought together behind his back and tied with cord. Another cord was thrown around his neck and tightened just enough so that breathing wasn't altogether easy anymore, then it was looped around the one that encircled his wrists. This caused continual tension on the one around his neck and he found he had to keep his head back just a bit to prevent the cord from slicing into his neck.

The feeling of disconnect that had been protecting him so nicely from complete overload ended abruptly when he felt a knife cut through the simple t-shirt he wore. It split it straight down the middle, carelessly splitting his skin in the process.

He shut his eyes against the slight burn of it and tried to prepare for what came next. But the fear, the gorram fear was making it hard to do anything save get lost in it. And it was ever-present now. No more looking through a porthole at some poor, unfortunate slob. This was it. He was the poor slob and he was living this nightmare in full-blown color.

The knife dropped to his pants and began to cut at those also, although they were mostly just pulled down. Shivering as he felt his legs exposed, he was vaguely aware that there were many hands touching him, and that they were all rough. He felt them in his hair, on his face, and on his bare back. There were even a couple pressing him down to the table by his arms. As if he could do anything. As if there was any point in struggling or fighting now. Now was about accepting. Accepting that you were about to die in the worst way imagined. Ever.

His breath hitched dangerously in his throat as he felt hands on his hips fumbling with his underwear. But those hands were suddenly removed, and another pair quickly replaced them. Then it happened again. And again.

Jayne opened his eyes. The guttural sounds that the once-men were making could barely be understood as language, but if you listened hard enough, you could detect meaning. It seemed that they were arguing about him. Arguing about who was going to go first, most likely.

Jayne allowed himself to entertain a fantasy of the Reavers becoming so immersed in their arguing that they essentially forgot about him. Maybe he could escape.

This fantasy became so real to him that Jayne actually smiled a little. But the happy fantasy was quickly dissolved when one pair of hands latched onto his hips, pulled down his underwear and entered him roughly.

He gasped as his body was propelled forward by the force of the intrusion. But the hands on his hips somehow turned into claws and pulled him back. He rode it all out; the rutting, the hot, fetid breath in his ear, the tongues and lips on his face and neck. He rode it all out and managed not to scream, not even when the once-man finished and pulled out so damn quickly that it burned. He managed not to scream when the second one entered him. But he couldn't hold it back when he felt teeth at his shoulder; impossibly sharp teeth that gracelessly sunk into his flesh. One of them had marked him; though not the one inside him, just one of the ones holding him down. But this seemed to give the one inside of him an idea, and when he finally tensed and shuddered and finished, he lowered his head to Jayne's other shoulder and bit. And tore.

Jayne screamed even louder as he felt his flesh tear and completely give way under the onslaught. He shut his eyes tightly and tried very hard not to be sick, breathing very heavily until he was sure that he wouldn't be.

By this time the third one had entered him, raking claws with talons instead of nails down his back, as others joined in on biting his exposed skin.

His back and his shoulders were now constantly on fire, but that was nothing compared to the throbbing, burning pain inside of his body.

'So this is what being raped to death feels like,' he mused as pain assaulted him from all sides and on so many different levels.

But it wasn't just physical pain. It was the very solid, real pain that comes from acknowledging the fact that you really didn't _want_ to live after something like this.

_The spirit dies first, then the body._

The thought was an eloquent one and it surprised Jayne that he would come up with it at a time like this.

Then the third one finishing (or was it the fourth? he was losing track) and another one was coming to take his place. Jayne breathed deeply through his nose and once again tried to prepare.

But this time there was no entrance. He held his breath, waiting for it, wondering what was taking this one so long and thinking that he'd much rather the psycho monster would just _get it over with already _when he realized that they were arguing over him again. He almost laughed out loud at the absurdity of it all. Him, who no one had ever wanted for anything, was being fought over. Not once, but twice.

He clamped down hard on the laugh and waited, his eyes closed, his cheek pressed to the hard wooden table, and listened to the sounds of their warring.

Finally they quieted and one of them moved behind him. He felt a possessive hand running down his back while another one carded almost playfully through his hair. Then suddenly the hands were gone.

'What the hell is going on?' managed to flit through his mind before he felt something warm and wet hitting his backside.

He didn't need to see to know what had happened.

He'd been urinated on. Marked; like an animal marks something that belongs to it. He groaned, deep in his throat, and wished for death from a God that he wasn't even sure existed.

A moment later, he felt strong hands on his shoulders - hands that flipped him over as if he weighed no more than a rag doll.

The suddenness of it caused him to open his eyes; his death wish momentarily forgotten.

He found that he was on his back now, legs still dangling from the table. He winced from the new pain of the unyielding wood meeting the welts on his back before cautiously looking around. What the hell had changed? Why was he like this now?

For a horrible moment, he thought that maybe one of the others had been brought here, that the game was changing because it included a new player, but looking around he could see no one else from the ship. He breathed a sigh of relief without even realizing he was doing so.

Eventually he became aware of the men clustered around him . . . no, not men . . . Reavers. Monsters. Ghouls. One of them was sitting on a stool right next to him, lips curled up in a parody of a real smile. His sharpened, pointed teeth seemed to glint at him in the soft light of the saloon. The Reaver placed his scarred hand on Jayne's chest and slowly leaned down toward him. Jayne stared at him, wild-eyed, waiting for the kiss that was sure to come. But the monster didn't kiss him. Though he was close enough to, all he did was grunt out the word, "Mine."

"Oh, God," Jayne said before he turned his head away from the grotesque, slashed face that hovered so close to his. The hand that was on his chest moved to his hair, grabbed it, and pulled his head back. Now he had no choice but to look at the thing. "Mine," it said again. Then, "Say it."

Any other time, Jayne would have spit in the face of whoever was trying to force him to do what he didn't want to do. Or at the very least, he would have laughed in it. But he could no neither. He had no strength to laugh and his mouth was as dry as a desert moon. So he closed his eyes and settled for a whispered, "Go to hell."

The Reavers laughed uproariously at his small act of defiance. All of them, that is, except the one whose hand he still had in his hair. It pulled viciously at his hair while its other hand punched him square in the mouth.

"Say it."

But there was not a rutting thing in this world or any other that was going to make Jayne say it.

"Fuck you."

The hand pulled again and this time Jayne felt hair being pulled from his scalp. Another punch came a mere second later. Then another. Jayne rode all of it out, secretly pleased that this was his punishment. A nice, solid beating he could handle, no problem.

Then suddenly, it seemed to be over.

Reflexively, Jayne opened his eyes and saw that the Reaver was now sitting back holding a beer bottle in his hand. Curious despite himself, he watched as the top of it was smashed on the side of the table. Then he felt his head being lifted as the jagged edges of the bottle were brought to his lips.

He was told to do something, and although he didn't understand the words, he was pretty sure he was being told to drink.

He winced as the edges of the bottle bit into his lips, but the cold liquid felt so good against his throat that he didn't care. He swallowed awkwardly, grateful for this one, small kindness. When the bottle was pulled away, the loss of it was so overwhelming that he nearly wept. But only a moment later, it was back again. Except this time, the bottle was pushed roughly past his lips and into his mouth. It scraped at the delicate skin there, the liquid from the bottle sloshing dangerously fast down his esophagus, and suddenly the kindness became cruelty.

He choked, tried not to choke, and choked some more as he wondered if this was how they were going to kill him. Then the bottle was yanked back out again and he was left coughing and spluttering all over himself. The cord around his neck pressed cruelly against him as he tried to lift his head to spit the liquid out, so he let it drop. He tasted blood in his throat and winced as he was forced to swallow it.

It was only after a few minutes, once he had gotten his breathing back under control, that he realized two things. One - the once-men were laughing hysterically. And two - he was crying.

He wished desperately for the use of his hands so that he could wipe the tears away. That these monsters could see them, that they could see that they had broken him in any way, was almost more than he could bear.

Once again he closed his eyes, trying for the precious disconnect from earlier. He might have reached it too, given enough time, but the Reavers lifting him from the table ruined his chance of that. They stood him up, then let him fall down hard on the ground when his legs failed him. Then the big one, the one that had claimed him, grabbed his arm and began to half-drag, half-pull him from the room. Jayne groaned as his already sore body connected with the floor time and time again.

He was taken upstairs, to where the rooms lay. The monster seemed to pick a room at random, stopped at it, then knocked the door open with a ferocious kick.

Jayne was pulled up into a standing position and forced into the room. This time he was not allowed to fall.

Out of years of ingrained habit, Jayne's eyes began to search the room. It was in shambles, completely torn apart by savage force. The bed was the only recognizable piece of furniture left. It sat right in the center of the room, next to a small window. And in the middle of it, surrounded by spattered gore, lay the room's sole occupant - a man wearing no clothes and no face.

The Reaver pulled Jayne toward the bed, and with only one hand, grabbed the corpse's arm and flung it onto the floor. Jayne turned away...had to...until he felt himself being pulled forward once again.

The thought of being on the dead man's bed was for some reason almost more than Jayne could handle and desperate words began falling from his mouth before he could even think about what he was doing.

"Please, don't. Please don't put me on that bed. Please. Please."

The Reaver, paying absolutely no attention to Jayne's half-mad pleadings, threw him onto the center of the bed easily. Jayne landed on his back, felt the congealing blood against his skin, and continued to beg even more incoherently than before. The Reaver stared at him for a moment, eyes dancing with what could pass for amusement in a sane man's face, then reached out and slapped him hard across the cheek.

Jayne's litany stopped as his head was snapped to the side from the blow. As he lay there, in the room that reeked of death, he felt alternately grateful and resentful that he'd been pushed off of the road to madness.

He felt the bed dip down from extra weight and knew that the Reaver now sat beside him. He refused to turn his head to look at him, choosing instead to focus on the dark, bloodstained wall across from him.

But when a clawed hand dug into his chin and twisted, he had no choice but to allow his head to follow.

The Reaver bent down a little and said, "Mine. Say it."

Jayne rolled his eyes. Couldn't the thing come up with anything new?

Then the creature's hand, which had been laying splayed across Jayne's chest, began to move downward. Its nails left thin, bloody trails as it moved from his chest to his stomach and then between his legs.

Jayne tensed, instantly regretting the rolling of the eyes. Whatever was going to happen now was going to be bad. Real bad.

A moment later he felt fingers inside of him; he guessed two but he couldn't be sure. Instinctively, his body arched up, trying to get away, but really there was nowhere to go. A moment later another finger was added, then another, then . . .

"Oh, God!" Jayne gasped as his body was rocked by a whole new lesson in pain.

The thing's hand . . . no, his fist...his entire first...was inside him.

Jayne froze, mouth open, eyes fixed to the ceiling as the hand began to move inside of him. In and out. Slowly. Nails scraping away at his insides. He would have screamed had he the breath to do so. He would have pleaded for it to stop had he the breath.

The creature's hand moved for what seemed eons, its leering face on the edge of Jayne's peripheral vision. And just when dark spots began to dance before his eyes and consciousness began to fade, the Reaver finally withdrew his hand. Jayne howled as the air that had been held captive in his lungs was expelled. His scream destroyed his throat just a little bit more, but he barely registered it. There was no other pain right now except the agony deep inside his body.

The Reaver moved into his line of sight. Jayne was dismayed and surprised to find that the once-man was blurry.

He'd been crying again.

"Mine. Say it," came the rough voice.

Jayne nodded, feeling very desperate and hurt and scared now. Feeling very much like the little boy who used to hide in his closet when his father got just a mite too drunk.

No point in fighting anymore. Now was about accepting.

"Yours."


	2. Chapter 2

Author's notes: Thanks to everyone who gave me feedback on the first story and encouraged me to write this chapter/companion piece. I didn't delve too deeply into Jayne's recovery in this one, but if anyone's interested in writing it, please feel free to take this framework and run with it. I should apologize for the ending - it sucks.

Death of the Spirit (2)

The Reaver took Jayne two more times before finally leaving him. Then it unceremoniously tied his right ankle to the bed post before patting him on his leg and barking out the word, "Stay."

'As if I can do anything but stay,' Jayne thought bitterly and somewhat deliriously. The sarcastic thought was as far as he went in acknowledging the order. He didn't laugh or scoff at the irony held in that one word. He gave no sound of assent, no nod, nothing to indicate that he had heard.

But he had.

And he did stay. Long after the Reaver left him, presumably to get some food and drink before coming back to finish him off, he stayed. Jayne wasn't a learned man, and he sure as hell couldn't begin to tell you how much trauma a human body could take before it gave in and died, but he knew himself. He knew _his_ body, and he knew that he was getting close.

After a while, despite wanting to obey the order to stay, his body began to move, almost of its own accord. It was excruciatingly slow going, the pain was so bad that he was forced to stop and pant for breath every other second, but eventually he was able to curl up in a fetal position - or as close as he could get to the fetal position considering how he was trussed up.

He found this position soothing and it somehow made things hurt a little less. He reasoned with himself that the Reaver couldn't possibly get angry about this, that he had barely moved; but still a part of him was scared about disobeying.

Despite the fear, he closed his eyes and let his weary body drift into something that might have been sleep, might have been unconsciousness, but was probably a little of both.

He would never be able to say how long he stayed like this, waiting for his own personal demon to come back, waiting for the pain to start again. Waiting for death. Eventually, sounds drifted to his ears, though not the ones he'd been expecting. These sounded almost like gunshots. And there was yelling. Not the wild, frenzied shouts from before though; some of these voices sounded angry, some sounded alarmed.

A fight maybe? Maybe another one about him?

As the noises drifted steadily closer his body began to shiver. When he heard heavy footsteps and slamming right outside the door, he panicked outright. He turned his head into the pillow and closed his eyes very tightly. Lips moved without sound as he began to chant, "No, no, no, no..." Over and over he repeated the word in his head, as if it alone had the power to ward off what was about to happen. When the door slammed open so hard that it rattled against the wall, he shut his eyes even tighter, and his chant grew in intensity until it was no longer silent.

When a hand touched his shoulder very lightly, he knew that something was different. The Reavers didn't touch like this. They were hard and brutal. This touch was soft...kind. He abruptly stopped his chant, and that's when he heard it.

"Jayne."

His name. Someone was saying his name. And not just any someone, he'd recognize that voice anywhere. His eyes flew open, searching wildly for only a second before he found and focused on Mal. His heart skipped a beat and for the first time since he'd been captured he allowed himself to feel something other than fear and despair. He blinked to get rid of hot tears and whispered, "Mal?"

Mal nodded slowly. His face was grim and worried, but he somehow managed to plaster on a fake smile. "It's me. We're gonna to get you out of here, ok?"

Jayne was about to wholeheartedly agree when a treacherous thought entered his mind. What if this wasn't real? What if his brain had conjured Mal up? What is this was nothing more than a dream...or worse, a hallucination?

"Not real. Dream." He gruffly whispered the words because his throat wouldn't allow for anything else. But Mal shook his head and the hand that still lay on his shoulder moved to the side of his face, touching him just as kindly and softly as before.

"No, Jayne. I'm real. And you're safe now. Me, Zoe, River; we killed the Reavers. All of 'em. And now I'm going to take you home."

Jayne just stared at him, not quite sure what to believe or think.

Mal abruptly stood up and leaned over him. "I need to cut these damn things off."

When Jayne started a bit at the sudden movement, Mal momentarily dropped back to his eye level and reassured him that he wouldn't hurt him.

Jayne waited, tense, confused, still trying to determine whether this was real Mal or imaginary Mal when he felt the cord around his neck give way. The one around his wrists came next followed by the one around his ankle.

It was only then, when he felt himself free and his body was his to control again that he finally realized that this was for real.

He moved his left arm in front of him, although he could do nothing about the other which was pinned underneath his body. He hissed in pain as feeling returned to it and a thousand pins and needles squirmed their way through his skin. He briefly closed his eyes against the feeling, and when he opened them again, Mal was back in front of him; again looking concerned, looking grim. He'd seen the look on the man's face at least a hundred times, but never before had it been directed at him. Jayne figured he must look really bad to warrant that look.

"We gotta get you outta here. Can you stand? Can you walk?"

Jayne wanted to say that for the chance to get out of here, he would gladly run a gorram marathon, but his energy failed him when he tried, so he settled for a simple, "Yeah."

Mal gave him that worried look again but said nothing. With a nod he grabbed Jayne's arm and shoulder and pulled him into a sitting position.

The pain that assaulted Jayne came from two different directions. The first was from the arm that had been laying under him and its renewed blood flow. But the worst was the pain _there_. Although it wasn't so much pain as white-hot agony.

The sound he emitted was like a backward-scream - a long, shuddery, intake of breath. Once again, spots danced before his eyes as everything seemed to haze over in hues of green. Mal must have noticed that he was two seconds from passing out because he was at his side instantly, sitting on the side of the bed, wrapping his arms around him. Jayne leaned against him as he tried to take his weight off of his rear, panting heavily, his hands clutching Mal's shirt like it was a life-line.

After a few minutes, the pain subsided enough for him to realize it wasn't the only thing in the 'verse and he was able to take inventory. Yup, he was still in the room from hell, he was naked, hurt, bleeding and now Mal was holding him as if he were a small child, even rocking him just slightly.

He looked up to find Mal looking down at him. "Jayne, I need to know if you can stand. I need to know if you can make it out of here under your own power."

Jayne nodded fiercely. "I can..."

"Ok. Then on the count of three we move. Ready? One, two, three!"

When three came around Mal stood up quickly, pulling Jayne with him.

Jayne had thought he was ready this time, he really did, but once again, the pain blind-sided him. His legs gave under him and he would have sank like a stone to the ground had Mal not anticipated it and held him up.

Once again they had to stay frozen in place for a few minutes until he was able to get the pain under control.

Finally, Jayne looked up at the Captain and bit out a terse, "Now."

Mal took a step and then seemed to hesitate. He looked quickly over to the bed. "Do you want...we could wrap you in one of those sheets..."

Jayne shook his head. Just the thought of having those bloody sheets touch him made him want to throw up. Besides he didn't care about modesty right now. All he cared about was getting out of here.

They began moving; one small, teetering step at a time. They were making progress, although it was excruciatingly slow, when Jayne saw the door..and he remembered what lay beyond that door. A sound, half-way between the sound of a mad-man and the howl of a wounded animal, escaped from his throat and he pushed Mal away with strength that he didn't know he had left. He hit the hard, wooden floor with a thud, coughing and spitting up blood. Then, without any thought except the one to _get away_, he began to crawl away from the door.

He heard his name being shouted, felt a hand grab on to his ankle, then his calf, but still he kept going. Delirious, terror-driven thoughts ran through his head as he scrabbled to get away.

_Why would Mal want to take me down there? Does he want to hurt me? Maybe it ain't Mal at all. Maybe it's a Reaver, playin' at Mal? _

He felt hands grasp his shoulders and flip him over and suddenly Mal was straddling him, hands tight on his shoulders. "Jayne, stop!"

Jayne shook his head fervently, trying to dislodge Mal's hands. "No. They're down there. Can't go down there. Can't make me."

"Jayne, they're not down there. We killed them. Zoe, River and I. We killed them all. The girls are still down there, waiting for us."

Jayne continued to shake his head, not believing, not able to believe. Suddenly, Mal's hands were on either side of his face, firm and warm, and Mal's face filled his vision. "Jayne! Look at me."

Mal's voice brooked no argument. Jayne stilled and listened.

"Have I ever lied to you? Have I?"

Jayne's reply was instantaneous; no thought required. "No."

"Then believe me when I tell that it's safe to go downstairs. And believe me when I say that I'm not going to let anyone else hurt you. I will kill you before I let this happen to you again."

The thought of home and safety and Mal's promise all conspired against Jayne, bringing him to tears again. In a very small voice, he asked, "Promise?"

"I promise." He paused, then smiled kindly. "Now let's go home, huh?"

Jayne nodded weakly.

"Ok," Mal said as he positioned himself to lift Jayne back up. But Jayne shook his head. "Can't walk," he admitted.

Mal nodded as if he'd been expecting this, then with one swift movement, he grabbed the bigger man, hauled him over his shoulder and stood up. Jayne screamed once, high and shrill, then his whole world went black as he promptly passed out.

The first time he woke, it was to find himself in the ship's infirmary. It was crowded and noisy, which meant that everyone was in there and everyone was staring at him and talking about him. He moaned as the pain kicked in and Simon promptly ordered the others out before moving to his side. Nobody moved, so Simon had to tell them twice; this time using his "I'm in charge" voice. Then he pressed a hand to Jayne's forehead and told him that he was going to be all right. Jayne didn't believe that for a second, but when even breathing hurt, there was no way he was going to argue.

As everyone began shuffling out, Simon held out one hand and pointed to Zoe. "Can you stay? I'm going to need help." She said yes, although she looked like this was the last place she wanted to be.

Jayne watched everything through heavily lidded eyes, unaware that he was still moaning. Then Simon was at his side again, this time with a smoother. He held it to the side of his neck and gently said, "This will help you sleep."

Jayne barely felt the injection, although the effects of the drug it contained were almost instantaneous. He looked around briefly, to assure himself that he was safe before going to sleep. The last thing he saw was River's huge eyes staring at him from the corner.

The second time he woke up, it was to pain, but it was a muted pain and it was tolerable. He forced bleary eyes to open and look around the room. After he'd assured himself of the fact that he was indeed safe and not still stuck in that hell, he began to take stock with the lassitude of one who was still under the influence of heavy drugs. He took note of the fact that he was lying on his back and that a soft, warm blanket covered him. He noted that the infirmary was very quiet and the lights were dimmed. He was alone. And he was strapped down by his wrists to the bed. His breathing began to quicken as panic blossomed in his chest. It was just about to turn into full-blown, scream and rant panic when he heard whispered voices not far from him. That calmed him down; having something other than himself to concentrate on, and as he began to relax, he began to listen.

The whispers spoke about him, about his injuries, discussing them, detailing them. He heard, eavesdropping on Mal and Simon, just how bad off he was, how for a while it had been touch and go, and how the doc was now really worried about scarring and infections.

He listened as the doc mused about the wounds in his throat, wondering aloud what could have caused them. Then a different voice, not whispering at all, but loud and clear, told them both about the bottle and its jagged edges.

It was the crazy girl. The reader. Jayne found it amusing, and sad, and frightening all at once that she knew that detail. The last thought he had before he fell back into drugged sleep was that she probably knew everything about what happened to him.

He woke again much later, eyes flying open, mouth gasping as he struggled up from a nightmare that showed him how and when he broke. A small hand on his arm drew his attention from the white of the ceiling and the lingering horror of the dream. The girl.

"You lied," she said in that matter-of-fact way of hers.

"What?" he asked, wishing his throat weren't so dry. Wishing it didn't still hurt so much.

"You lied. To him. To it. You're not his. You never were."

He was about to get defensive and argue with her, but something in her eyes stopped him. They were very clear and there was truth and knowledge in them that made her look so much wiser than her years. So he stayed quiet and waited for her to continue.

"It's a survival mechanism, you know. Lying to stop the pain. Basic human psychology. Everyone has limits."

Jayne shook his head. "Not Mal . . . Mal didn't break. Mal wouldn't have broke." His own words surprised him; he'd never realized that he looked at Mal as some barometer of strength, or that he measured himself against this barometer. But there it was.

River drew closer to him, leaning down so that her hair trailed along his arm. "Captain has many faces, many skins, but he would have broke. Into a thousand, sparkling pieces. Everybody breaks and everybody lies."

He looked at her in amazement, trying to figure out if what she was saying was true. He was about to ask her to keep talking when Simon walked in.

She stood quickly and made to leave, but just before she did, her hand swept across his brow and she gave a small wink. Jayne watched her go, her words already embedding themselves in his head.

Eventually, they undid the wrist straps, once they realized that he wasn't going to start cutting himself and murdering them. Everyone came to visit him, more than once, but he found the visits awkward and uncomfortable.

They all wanted to help, that was as plain as day, but they all felt like they had to know what had happened to him before they could say the right things, and Jayne just couldn't tell them. Telling them would be reliving it. And he couldn't relive it. God, he couldn't. It was bad enough that he had lived it in the first place or that he relived it every night, in a hundred different dreams, in a hundred different ways. So he stayed silent, even when they asked, even when they pressed, and the visits remained awkward.

After almost two weeks, Simon proclaimed him fit enough to move back into his room. Jayne never thought he'd be so happy to be back in the cramped space. It became a sanctuary to him, the one place where he could escape the pitying looks and the strained attempts at conversation.

But not the girl. He couldn't escape the girl. Nor did he want to; not anymore.

Jayne remembered exactly when it had all started. It was the second night that he'd been allowed back in his room. He'd had a nightmare, had just woken up from it, half-screaming, half-sobbing, and suddenly River was at his side, appearing out of nowhere like a ghost. She had held him, soothed him, and cried right along with him. By the time the others had come running in to check on him, he was curled up in her lap, arms wrapped tightly around her waist, seemingly hanging on for dear life.

Now, a week and a half later, her coming to him at night was becoming almost a ritual. Jayne knew that eventually either Mal or Simon (or both) would come to him and demand to know what was going on.

He wasn't sure what he would say to them. He'd never been good with words, and he wasn't sure how he would explain that the girl gave him comfort without pity or how much it helped that he didn't have to say one word and yet she knew what he was feeling. She knew when he was scared and needed someone. She knew when he was angry and didn't want anyone near him. She just knew.

Like now. She'd been in his room before the nightmare had even begun. He knew this because her arms were wrapped around him before he had even uttered the first scream.

As the nightmare continued to fade, he buried his face in her dark hair and felt her tears mingle with his. Her words, mostly inane babbling, flowed through him, calming him.

Then he did something he never in a million years thought that he would do. He closed his eyes and silently thanked every entity he could think of that she was there.


End file.
